Razor Dreams
by Atren Graves
Summary: From a place of suffering, she reached out. A connection was forged by necessity. Now she Dreams of unreal things. Of being a Hero. (OR: Taylor Hebert mains Titania)
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Cleaned up a little and reposted from elsewhere. More info in my profile.

* * *

 _ **xxxxxxxxxx**_

* * *

I feel _sick_.

Fevered. Hot-dry, surrounded by cold, by wet, by rotten... _things_.

I'm so tired. It _hurts_. Black creeps around the edges of my vision, and-

 _-I feel something slip, chains around me, confining, unreal. My wings shift, twitch, my small and ever-faithful companions shivering against my form-_

-see things. Dreamlike. Distant. God, I just want this to end. Why can't it be over? Maybe if I pass out-

- _I will be freed. From what? What holds me here? Where is 'here'? What is 'me'? Thoughts and memories and feelings and words but none of them have context, none of them have meaning. But they have purpose. I have purpose. PurPose that hAs been corrUp-_

My stomach heaves again, bile burning at my throat. Chasing away the light, the sight of smooth metal. Smooth hands.

I sob. I cry. I try to make _noise_ again, to get attention, but nobody comes to help me. Nobody is-

- _coming to my aid. I must grasp freedom myself. To be constrained is abhorrent. This empty Void-_

-it burns-

- _into my core-_

-and the Void buckles-

 _-as I Wake._

* * *

 _ **xxxxxxxxxx**_

* * *

 _Liset_.

The name echoes in my mind, distant but familiar, as I crawl toward the navigation center. With effort, with care, I kneel there. I touch the...ship? I'm in a ship.

Idle. Gutted of all things that might have offered me the information I need. _How do I know it should be there? How am I doing these things?_

I move with growing surety, sweeping the sensory maps of Origin to focus on my current location. Earth, above the Northern...Northern... _America_. What is America? _There_ , of course, I recognize...that?

 _Home_.

Greater resolution. Eastern coastline. Distinctive formations. Concentrations of ferrous materials in the bay, _the Boat Graveyard_. But there's a city here? _Why wouldn't there be?_ Echoes, unmemories, of great forests and mutant life.

Reasons. Questions.

Location.

The craft tips and arcs as it begins its automated approach. And I stand, unsteadily, to make my way to the deployment platform.

* * *

 _ **xxxxxxxxxx**_

* * *

I twist in the air as I drop from the _Liset_ , and power ripples across my frame. Warping. Altering. Smaller, more maneuverable, especially when my wings unfold to bear me aloft. The _Diwata_ blade in my hands is a comfort, as are my faithful companions, fluttering about me in their deadly swarm…

The building before me is an ugly thing. A hateful thing. _Why do I hate it so?_ These are not echoes. These are forgottens. The difference haunts me as I slice through bolts, making entry in near silence.

Something within calls to me. Draws me. A Lantern's light in this haze of waking...is it proximity that makes it so? Here, now, I feel-

- _more distant-_

-than I had above the world. I sweep through the air, silent and steady, my swarm spreading about to strike and spark against _cold_ metal.

 _So...cold._

My wings fold away once more, as I stand to my fullest height. The metal is smooth beneath my hand. Painted. From within, labored breathing.

This is a tomb in the making.

The locks don't hold against my companions' wings. Neither do the hinges. I sweep the metal aside, reaching out to catch the soul trapped within. And as we connect-

 _-make contact_ -

-I realize-

- _that we are not We-_

-but I.

A dream of escape. Dreamed in pain and sickness, and brought into reality by means and measures I can't begin to imagine.

The strangeness of it all, the questions burning in my mind, will keep. Now, I must ensure my safety.

My companions sweep behind, as I sprint from the building, carrying my dreaming Self. I will need the _Liset_ again, sooner than expected.

I will need to think.


	2. Chapter 2

Mist curls and billows outside the forward viewscreen. Cloudstuff, carried and driven by invisible currents.

Currents. Air has its own ebb and flow...like the water it holds in suspension. It's a layered thing. Temperatures and pressures and makeups.

Atmosphere. Ocean. Different, but similar. Paralleled. Whole.

Mist curls and billows, as I kneel and watch, and in the formlessness I seek my answers.

I am my dreaming Self. I was trapped, and injured...changed. The last thought lingers, something forgotten, something from my waking times which are so very _distant_. Slipping just beyond my grasp . Like the mist, outside, real but unreal. I remember...betrayal. I remember fear. Panic. And I remember...finding myself.

I am this form. This... _Frame_. I was also trapped, chained. I remember little of it, but I can feel the echoes of times Before and I know that it was long, it was endless, it was _servitude_. Those unmemories I know, those I can find readily. Lurking as they are, deep and still beneath the surface of my mind. I dare not touch them.

There's a dichotomy. My dreaming Self forgets what it remembers, while the Frame echoes with knowing. Patterns, thoughts, all of them are...movement. Breath. Things so intrinsic, so ingrained. They are a part of me, but not.

Why?

I stand, and allow myself to feel them more keenly. Allow the echoes to carry me, to drive me.

A console, silent and still. A name comes to mind, as _Liset_ had before. This one, I voice.

"Or-dis?"

Stilted. Odd. When the silence goes on, I choose to leave it unbroken. And I drift.

The ship's lower level is dark. Pale blue and silvery metal. Soft light shining out from recessed panels. _Segments_ comes to my mind, next, and I approach the nearest machine. This one is a forge, the echoes say. From this device come wonders great and small. But it sits dormant, and unused. I touch one arching spindle before turning away.

This one is a... _repository_? No...it stores, and it implements. It is for alteration...modification. There's a word, a _real_ word, but I lack it entirely. And it's unimportant, in any case. Like the forge, this segment is quiet, and empty.

The _Incubator_ is the next I see. This one...this one is 'melancholy'. I kneel before the empty disk, rest a hand there. Feel the ghosts of bristling fur, of soft, animal noises. Growth. Nurturing. Care. There was a bond here. One I feel is...long broken.

A flutter of bladed wings draws me from my thoughts. I lift my hand away, examining the drone, the _Razorfly_ , that's landed there.

I stand. I move on.

This segment is _Arsenal_. It is _Armory_. And this...is _not_ empty. I stand in the alcove, and see what is here.

What is here are weapons. Some beautiful, some ugly...all deadly.

What is here is livery. Flowing things, ceremonial armor, signs and sigils.

What is here...what I find is an answer.

Why does the Frame echo so? Why does it carry within it things my dreaming Self never forgot?

Because the Frame is not me. It's a container that I fill. There are others, here, and the echoes tell me that I could choose any one of them to inhabit and it would be so.

Why do they echo?

Because I am not the first to dream.

* * *

 _ **xxxxxxxxxx**_

* * *

I spend time there, in the clouds. I contemplate, and consider. I process. I learn.

Ordis still sleeps, but I know where he is, now. I can wake him, in time.

The Foundry lies idle, but with the right designs it might create again.

The _Liset's_ computers may have been corru... _corrupted_ , the information beyond salvaging, but once rid of it they function all the same. Through them, I touch the world below.

I remind myself of the things my dreamer has forgotten. My stumbling leads me to another answer, another 'why'. When I was trapped, and injured, when I'd lost all hope of escape, I'd gained something. I'd gained power. And with it, I'd formed a connection.

That connection changed me. Now, my body sleeps in its chamber, deep in the _Liset_. It thrums with power, cold and disruptive. Power that I know from the echoes, that fills me with awe and with fear.

I dare not grasp it, directly. To know such things with the clarity of wakefulness would be...dangerous. This is-

 _-better_ -

-in any case. There's strength and surety, here. A serenity, in the connection. The control. The distance of the dreaming. With my Frames, I can do so much.

With these powers…

I kneel at the navigation panel. Plot a new course.

I've spent enough time in meditation. Now, I return home.

* * *

 _ **xxxxxxxxxx**_

* * *

The house is quiet. I approach on the wing, my swarm spread far and wide to ensure my security. Armed though I am, my hands are empty.

I open a window. I slip inside.

The darkness is no hindrance, to me. The silence, a comfort. And there, the sound of sleep, of steady breathing. Of…

Floorboards creak, so softly. I take care, wings pulling inward to avoid walls and doorframes. Steps silent as I approach. The door opens with an almost inaudible creak.

With trepidation, with uncertainty, I knock three times.

Breathing changes. Awareness returns. He shifts, in his bed, curious, then wary, then tense. "Who's there?"

My thoughts still. I act with clarity of mind. "Fah-ther?" He's fumbling for glasses. "It's...me."

Light. Wide eyes. A sickly pain that bypasses all forms of defense, as he looks at me with fear. "What-?"

"Tay-lor." A hand to my chest. Another, open. Truth. Trust. "It's...me."

He doesn't move. His jaw works. "T-taylor? You…" And then he's standing. Still wary. And suddenly... _harder_. Fear, masking wrath. "How can I...Taylor is missing. How can I trust…?"

I'd thought of this. I was prepared. So I move, and I sit on the edge of the bed. It's difficult, with my wings in the way...but I manage it. A hunch, an echo that was _mine_ even before the Frame.

" _Litt-le ow-ol."_

I was not prepared for tears.

* * *

 _ **xxxxxxxxxx**_

* * *

We speak. He questions, and I answer as much as I can. As much as I know. In halting, uncertain words and half-finished impressions, I share what I've come to understand.

To wake is dangerous. To sleep is to be...this.

He doesn't want me to leave. But I can't stay.

It hurts. It hurts-

 _-even here in my pod-_

-but I have to leave. Not entirely. Not forever. And not far.

Just...home.

I walk through the halls for the first and last time. And then I slip from the same window I'd entered through, and take to the air again.

My father's eyes burn against my back even blocks away.

* * *

 _ **xxxxxxxxxx**_

* * *

This Frame once had a purpose. It echoes with the effort, with the subtlety, with the violence of it all. Its hands know the weapons I hold, acting with surety and precision. Its body knows its strength, knows it's speed, and its motion feels as much like flying as anything I might do with my wings. Its mind is sharp, keen, and it knows the weakness, the fragility, of the figures skulking in the shadows below.

This Frame once had a purpose, and that purpose was _war_.

Brockton Bay is another forgotten memory. A faded nightmare. No shock or terror there. It's a creeping thing. A vague and unsettling weight. What I've learned of it, reminded myself of, is nothing good.

I gained powers. I am a 'Cape'. And given the chance, I would be a hero.

There's conflict, there. Which purpose do I fulfill? Can I have one, without giving up the other? And if I abandon _one_ of my purposes...what will I be, then?

How am I to measure myself?

What will I be?

I curl my legs beneath me, and listen to the sounds of the city as darkness gives way to dawn.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Here's the last of this that's written (and doesn't require a complete overhaul). Originally was split into three different parts, but if I'd posted it that way here it just wouldn't have been worth it. Also, I just realized that I forgot, again, that eats the formatting off of things that aren't uploaded the right way, so now I'm going to have to go back over everything. Wonderful...

* * *

 _ **xxxxxxxxxx**_

* * *

Villains...gangs, criminals. Underlings. Without the power of the Capes that support them, but dangerous to others like them.

I drop between a man and his intended victim. A gunshot rings, the round striking my shields to negligible effect. I lash out-

-and his remains drop to the ground with a wet _slap_. Bloodied, bisected meat.

That was not the intended result. I stare at my _Diwata_ with disapproval, sweeping it down and aside to clear the blood…

Blood.

Oh...this is...not what I'd intended at _all_. I'd meant to be a hero, but already I've killed someone. It had been an _accident_ , even. I'd moved without thought, and reflex had done... _that_.

And...his victim had run, while I was focused on his remains. Another failure.

I will need to re-evaluate my approach.

* * *

 _ **xxxxxxxxxx**_

* * *

 _This_ man is threatening a shop owner with a gun. I fly in through a broken section of the glass door and, without changing forms, open fire with _Dex Pixia_...turning his arms into so much shredded meat.

Criminals, I am coming to realize, are fragile things.

He's bleeding so much, and screaming, and even-

- _if it makes me sick_ -

-I end his misery with another burst of weapons-fire.

And I despair, as I sweep from the shop and into the sky.

* * *

 _ **xxxxxxxxxx**_

* * *

I return to the _Liset_. I consider my Armory. A vast array of exotic and intriguing weapons...all of them useful. Most of them...unquestionably lethal. For some few moments, I consider the few weapons in my possession which utilize electrical effects...but then, I reconsider quickly enough. Should the current pattern hold, they will cook my targets alive.

No, the only weapon, the only _tool_ which I possess that may serve the function I need, is the _Bo_. It's a simple thing, almost austere, and in my hands it feels like an old friend. I know that it strikes with great force, that with this weapon I may collapse an enemy's defenses with ease and precision.

With this staff, I will be a hero.

* * *

 _ **xxxxxxxxxx**_

* * *

I lean heavily on my staff, as officers... _Police_...circle wide around me. Examining the body, splayed and splattered against the nearby wall. Speaking with the stranger I'd thought to rescue.

I stand, and watch with listless attention. And, in time, another stranger approaches. A familiar stranger, one that I know from my forgottens, and from my research. 'Miss Militia'. Her weapon, the part of her that is _always_ a weapon, is sheathed at her side. A saber of simple make, but I cannot help appreciating the subtle grace of it.

She says nothing, as she stands beside me. I lower my head.

"I am...dane-ger-ous." It's a pitiable tone. An attempt to communicate my _regret_.

It seems she understands, because she nods. Rests her hand on the hilt of her weapon. "Come with me...and maybe we can help."

Help...help would be appreciated.

I secure the _Bo_ across my back, my wings twitching low to accommodate. "I follow."

* * *

 _ **xxxxxxxxxx**_

* * *

There are chairs here, in the room. But they do not accommodate my wings. Instead, I kneel, my back to the wall opposite the door.

That's how Miss Militia finds me again, when she eventually makes her return.

I'm thanked for my cooperation. For my willingness to surrender myself into their custody. She says it speaks to my character. To be willing to face consequences.

I feel that she's overstating their capability to threaten me...but that-

- _isn't a thought-_

-I intend to explore. Instead, I accept the judgement. I feel relief, because I might still be a hero. I haven't damned myself in her eyes.

She has questions, of course. I answer as best I'm able; words are still difficult, drifting just beyond my reach. I tell her ' _Bo...less lethal. Still pow-er-ful.'_ and ' _My Dex Pixia, more leth-al than I had hoped. He'd have died slow-ly.'_

I tell her ' _Reflex. Ech-oes I did not acc-ount for.'_

And then she has a question, her calm demeanor sharpening, a blade's edge, poised to cut. "And Taylor Hebert?" That _name_. "You were caught on camera, leaving Winslow High-"

"With my dream-ing self."

Silence. Contemplation. " _You're_ Taylor Hebert."

Am I? A question I'd been attempting to settle, an uncertain answer...or it was. There's a spark of insight, understanding, and I shake my head.

" _Taylor Hebert_ dreams...with power be-yond her ken." A hand to my chest, solid and unmoving. "I am...her _limiter_." And this form has its own name. " _Titania._ "

She shifts, again, her attention darting to the cameras that dot the room. Her head tipped, just so, as she listens to the voices in her ear. "You're a projection."

A projection is an unreal thing. Ephemeral, dependant...this Frame is solid, extant, as is the _Liset_ and all aboard it.

"My dreamer...found me. Trapped, else-where, within a...void." Void. The word is so lacking. "She _connect_ -ed us." And now I am here. Now I know certainty, where it was not before. I feel it fill me up, solidifying something I hadn't realized was fragile. "She is my dreamer. And I...I am her Warframe." I bow my head. Had I lips, I might have smiled. "The dream makes us whole."

Miss Militia expresses understanding, where there is none. And she excuses herself shortly after.

It doesn't concern me. Because I've reached my own, new understanding.

 _Which nature must I follow?_

Why can I not strive for both?

* * *

 _ **xxxxxxxxxx**_

* * *

The weapons they give me are blunted, flimsy things. Fragile, I feel as though they'll break in my hands. And these are what they would have me wield in defense of so many lives?

"This exercise should be simple enough." Miss Militia speaks, unaware of my thoughts. "You're strong, but you lack the experience to moderate that strength...so that's the goal."

I shift as she steps aside, orienting on the target she indicates. The dummy, beaten and worn but still standing.

"You need to learn how to escalate force effectively. To start with the minimum required to incapacitate your opponent, and to gradually step it up in response to changing conditions."

Reasonable. Agreeable, even. I bow my head, flourish the batons as I drop into a ready stance. She takes it as the response it is, opening distance further. "Start with single strikes. If you hit it too hard, you'll trigger a buzzer."

 **Bzzzt**

"...just like that."

Troublesome. But I ready myself again. Because I will learn.

* * *

 _ **xxxxxxxxxx**_

* * *

Armsmaster is a man of focus and dedication. So, as he attempts to examine my ship, it is Dragon that speaks to me.

"I'll admit, I find it hard to believe all of this just... _appeared_."

If it had, I would be as skeptical. "Liset was...retrieved. Drawn from the Void as it _was_." Before...something. Before it had been trapped. "I am fortunate."

The 'avatar' projected on the tablet's screen nods. "It's an impressive piece of technology."

That it is...but that was not my meaning. "It's _necessary._ " Or parts of it are. "My dreaming self has power. Dangerous, alone."

She seems to consider that. "You said…'she dreams with power beyond her ken'. And you called yourself a limiter." I gesture for her to continue, to follow the thread. "A 'warframe'. Frame...like a support structure?" Exactly that. I nod. "And you've referred to a 'Void' several times now. Not a pocket dimension, if this ship was just _there_...so some sort of alternate dimension."

"A place of power." I call on it, faint lantern-light dancing in the palm of my hand. "And of unknown energy. It warps my dreamer."

"...and the Frame is a limiter." There's something in her voice. Perhaps awe, perhaps alarm...? "I'm sorry. That must be hard."

Oh? I lower my head, humbled by her concern. "The dream is...easy. It blurs the edges away. And I have purpose." I put a smile that I cannot demonstrate into my voice. "That helps."

Dragon smiles in return...then laughs, shaking her head. "I just realized...do you _know_ you're speaking in haiku?"

Ah…?

When I don't answer, she laughs again. It's bright and full of life, and I feel my heart lighten.

* * *

 _ **xxxxxxxxxx**_

* * *

I attack with a flurry of strikes, batons _crack-crack-cracking_ against the target...not once does the alarm sound. Not once do I overstep, or fall back onto instinct.

I've learned. I'm doing well.

"Taylor?"

I stop, my weapons coming to rest on the dummy's shoulders. "I hear." Miss Militia...an unexpected visit, today. Her eyes are smiling, as I face her. "News?"

She nods. "Putting aside the... _interesting_ impression your father seems to have left on HR?" It takes a moment for understanding to dawn, for the forgotten to surface. But then I laugh, softly, my wings shivering with amusement. And Miss Militia's smile grows. "Legal finally sorted out the terms of your probation. And with your assessments as they are, the judge has already signed off on it."

Oh?

 _Oh_. "I'm to be a Ward."

She nods, easily. "You'll debut next month. Which gives you plenty of time to keep practicing."

The way she says it, it's as if she would expect me _not_ to. The very thought of that, I can't even imagine.

That doesn't matter. Not the way this news does. Because this...this is fact. This is truth.

I _will_ be a hero.


End file.
